Murders of a feather, p.1
Murders of a Feather, page 1
Also by Eileen Brady
Dr. Kate Vet Mysteries
Saddled with Murder
Last but Not Leashed
Kate Turner, DVM Mysteries
Muzzled
Unleashed
Chained
Penned
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2023 by Eileen Brady
Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Brandon Dorman/Lott Reps
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Excerpt from Last But Not Leashed
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To all my readers, a heartfelt thank you. And to my newest and youngest, our lovely Claire Kathleen, welcome to the world.
“If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”
—Henry Ward Beecher
“Cats are inquisitive but hate to admit it.”
—Mason Cooley
“Sometimes, your pet picks you.”
—Julie Wenzel
Chapter One
“Cupid’s waiting for you, Dr. Kate,” Mari, my veterinary technician, said.
“Do you have to rub it in?” I asked. It was the last half of January, and Valentine’s Day loomed next month. I’d resigned myself to spending it alone with my dog, hiding out on my couch eating a frozen dinner for one.
Mari shook her head of black, glossy curls. “No, I mean Cupid is waiting for you in exam room two.”
“Cupid is my patient?”
“Yep. But there aren’t any arrows left in his quiver.”
“Go potty, Cupid. Go potty.”
“This looks like fun.” Cindy, our receptionist, leaned against the treatment room door staring at the two of us, as crisp as we were wrinkled. Crowded with banks of cages, stainless-steel work tables, microscopes, and counters covered with diagnostic machines, this area was the heart of the Oak Falls Animal Hospital.
On a leash next to me trotted a slim Doberman pincher interested in anything but taking a leak. He’d come in for a suspected bladder infection. We needed a urine sample, but so far we had been unsuccessful. Mari, dressed in gray scrubs, followed the patient with a stainless-steel bowl, ready to catch a sample at the first sign of a leg lift, or a squat, as I marched him across the room. We’d been playing follow-the-leader throughout our lunch hour begging him to go.
“You’re welcome to try,” I told Cindy. “It’s snowing outside, and his owner said this tough Dobie hates getting his feet wet.” We’d been at this for fifteen minutes, and I was ready to put Cupid back in his run.
“No thank you,” Cindy answered. “You couldn’t get them to agree to a catheterized sample?”
“No such luck,” Mari chimed in. “Wait…”
We all stared at the handsome black-and-tan dog as he paused, then lifted his leg and aimed for the end corner of the stainless-steel cages—a favorite spot for our male doggie patients.
Slick as a snake, Mari intervened. Cupid piddled his stream into the sanitized bowl, a direct hit. “Straight shot,” she commented, “and more than enough. Hooray!”
Cupid looked up, flexed his back legs like he was digging up dirt a couple of times and probably wondered what all the fuss was about.
“Tell the owner he can pick him up anytime,” I said, while opening the dog run door. “We’ll have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. The culture and sensitivity will take the lab five to ten days.”
“Will do.” Cindy started to leave then stopped. “I’m going to miss you guys while I’m gone, but not enough to stay here.”
Mari and I exchanged glances. Cindy was leaving for a week’s vacation, spending the time relaxing on a warm Florida beach with her hubby and extended family. I hoped things would run smoothly while she was gone. Oak Falls Animal Hospital booked both clinic and house call appointments, keeping me super busy. I wondered about a stranger stepping into Cindy’s sneakers for the week.
“Think positive,” Mari commented when I confessed my fears to her. “It’s only seven days and seven nights. It will be over before you know it.”
Of course she was right. Cindy had proven herself a wonderful office manager, juggler of appointments, and fountain of good advice. Her job came with plenty of stress. Pleasing the public was tiring. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get away from the Hudson Valley during the winter. So far we’d had sun, snow, ice, sleet, rain, and golf ball-sized hailstones thrown at us by Mother Nature in the brief new year. Currently, a blast of arctic air that arrived late the previous night forced most residents to huddle inside.
Once caught up on my clinic notes, I moseyed over to my office and sat down in front of the computer. The cubbyhole-sized room, painted a restful cream color, was my retreat. In a corner lay the temperamental hospital cat, Mr. Katt, slumbering on his bed. He’d deposited his squeaky toy on my chair. I tossed it to him, but he didn’t bother to acknowledge it.
The screensaver scrolled through several photos of gorgeous places I hadn’t been. Sunbathing by the ocean sounded wonderful.
My train of thought was interrupted when I saw a stray potato chip wedged against the V on my keyboard. I absentmindedly popped it in my mouth.
Since I had no hubby and no boyfriend and no prospects, I wondered again what kind of Valentine’s Day I would have when Mari called out, “Dr. Kate. Do you need a fecal sample, too?”
That could only mean one thing. While I was musing about Valentine’s Day, my Cupid had taken a dump.
Our busy morning passed quickly, but during lunchtime Cindy cautioned us about the afternoon schedule.
“Packed with house calls,” she told us. “Plus I booked two drop-offs who needed to be seen.”
A drop-off appointment meant the owner left their pet with us, and we basically saw them when we could, sometimes at the end of the day. That ensured they received veterinary care even when we technically didn’t have any available appointments. I tried not to let any of my patients be without my help if humanly possible. This meant many late nights for my staff and me.
“I hope the house call appointments have plowed their driveways,” I called out to Cindy’s back.
Your next appointment is here, Mari texted me. Meet you in exam room one.
After powering down my computer I stood up, then ran the pet hair roller that had a treasured spot on my desk across my coat. Although Cupid was a shorthaired Dobie, he shed an amazing amount of black-and-tan fur on my white doctor’s coat.
I didn’t think that was what they meant by being “touched by Cupid.”
Quickly checking in the employee bathroom that I looked presentable, I dipped both hands in water and slicked down my straight blond hair, some of which had escaped a tight ponytail. Nothing could be done about the pale makeup-free face that stared back at me. My friends sometim
With a sigh I swiped my lips with ChapStick, slipped my stethoscope around my neck, and walked toward the exam rooms.
Pausing outside exam room one, I took a breath before knocking and entering. Mari stood next to the stainless-steel exam table, her back obscuring the view of my patient. When she stepped away, I caught a glimpse of my second surprise of the day.
“So who is this cutie?” I asked. I normally didn’t see pigs, but Cindy must have felt sorry for this client, who also brought his dog to us.
“It’s Porky, our mini potbellied pig.” The man who spoke rested his hand on the young piglet’s gray-and-white back. “He just turned twelve weeks old.”
So, you know how some people resemble their pets? The owner’s nose had a definite upturn at the end. His bright blue eyes stared into mine, as though he knew what I was thinking and dared me to say anything.
“How long have you had him?” I asked. From where I stood, there was no ambiguity as to Porky’s gender. I slipped on a pair of exam gloves as we spoke.
“The wife and I got him as a baby. He’s good as gold. House-trained, smart as can be—but he’s got this lump here.” With his forefinger he indicated the middle of Porky’s belly. “My buddy said to put a quarter over it and duct tape it.”
Now I’m as big a fan of duct tape as everyone else, but in this instance it wouldn’t do any good. I immediately knew what was wrong. Porky had an umbilical hernia. Pressing gently I palpated to feel if any loops of intestine had slid into the swelling. Hernias aren’t uncommon in pigs. This was a moderate one so far, caused by a deficit or weakness in the abdominal wall. Since Porky had not been neutered, I also checked for an inguinal hernia. His immature porcine package felt totally normal.
As I explained an umbilical hernia to the client, I also said there was only one option to fix the problem: surgery. As the piglet got bigger and put on weight this hernia would continue to swell. A neuter was also in order so their well-behaved baby wouldn’t develop nasty hormonal behavior accompanied by very stinky urine.
“Plenty of people with pet pigs told me he had to be neutered. That’s what I figured,” the owner said. “We’re okay with that. The wife and I love this little guy.”
I also had a fondness for these happy, intelligent creatures. In fact, I’d spent several summers working at a rescue farm during vet school and assisted at piglet hernia repairs with my large-animal vet professor. Because of Porky’s small size, I was comfortable doing the surgery, but I preferred to refer him to the nearby large-animal practice.
“Mari, can you have Cindy call the Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center and find out when they can see Porky?” If they were half as busy as we were, it might be a month or longer.
While I waited for an answer I continued my exam, taking a moment to scratch the piglet on his snout. His coarse-hair coat was even and healthy, his lungs and heart normal. Porky poked his nose under my hand like a cat wanting to be petted again.
“He does that to me all the time,” the owner said.
As I chatted about the proper feeding and husbandry of potbellied pigs, Mari interrupted. “Sorry, Dr. Kate. They’ve got one doctor out on maternity leave and a second doc who broke his wrist skiing. They won’t have any openings for elective surgery for another three months.”
“I’m not sure this guy can wait that long,” I said. My palpations had revealed quite an opening in the abdominal wall. “Let me make some phone calls,” I told the owner while absentmindedly stroking the piggy. “Worst case scenario, we can do it here.”
“Thanks, Dr. Kate. You don’t know how much this means to us.”
The owner was wrong. I did have an inkling of how much he loved Porky and Porky loved him.
When he leaned over to pick up his pet he got a big wet porcine kiss.
Which was one more kiss than I’d had in a while.
Chapter Two
The rumble of the hospital F-150 truck downshifting made me miss the last part of Mari’s discussion of her Valentine’s Day plans as we drove toward our final house call of the afternoon. She and her partner had reservations for dinner at an Italian restaurant, then arranged to meet up with friends for karaoke at the Red Lion Pub.
“You have to book early or you’re out of luck,” she reminded me. “Why don’t you come along? We’d love to have you join us.”
Being a third wheel was not my idea of fun, so I fibbed a little. “I’ve got a friend from school who might be in the neighborhood, but thanks for the offer.”
We bounced over a rut in the road. Our seat hinges squeaked in protest.
Mari looked up from the office laptop and asked, “Who is that?”
Pinned to the wall I blurted out my old lab partner’s name. “Danny Malone. He’s just a friend, so don’t get excited.” I knew my staff wanted to see me happy. Maybe this would tide them over until the Ides of March, but I doubted it.
Before Mari could follow with a million questions I said, “Which pet are we looking at today?” It was Friday, and we were on our way to Maple Grove Farm, a rescue facility run by a retired NYC power couple. I’d seen several of their animals over the last few months.
“Ahh. Let me see. It looks like we’re checking out some puppies, born to one of those puppy mill dogs they rescued. We’re set to do first exams and vaccines, and one of the puppies is limping.”
Puppy mill females were of use to breeders only as long as they could have puppies. The females are forced to have litter after litter until they are basically worn out. Here at the Maple Grove Farm, they gave happy lifetime homes to animals that desperately needed rescuing.
“Ashley and her husband do such needed work,” I said, slowing down as we approached their driveway. The clank of our chains jangled harshly as we crossed over a spot of cleared asphalt. Pine branches weighed down with recent snow slapped the side of the truck. The new scratches would join all the other scratches. A sharp turn, and we were ready to climb the small hill leading to the farm. Quite a menagerie lived here, including goats, horses, donkeys, and a mule. On the small-animal side were multiple dogs, cats, assorted hamsters, and other pocket pets.
The tires dug into the snow, moving farther up the rise with minimum sliding and slipping, before breaking through to the fields above. Mari texted Ashley Kaminsky to let her know we were here. As we passed the barn I noticed a mobile veterinary truck parked outside.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pulling up to the farmhouse and parking parallel to the front walkway.
Mari craned her neck and read “Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center.”
“Good,” I said, digging out my medical bag from the back seat. “Maybe after we’re done, I can ask them about Porky the piglet.”
Mari opened the passenger side door and secured the laptop computer into a carrying case. “Look out. We’ve got quite a welcoming committee today.”
Sure enough, a pack of dogs woofed and wagged their tails, running to the truck to greet us. Standing on the wide wraparound porch, Ashley waved a greeting, one foot sporting a black orthopedic device. I waved back, sure that my words of greeting would be inaudible, as I waited for the barking to tamp down. The renovated farmhouse combined country charm with modern efficiency. Running a rescue farm had been the couple’s longtime dream.
A deep woof next to me begged for attention. The vocalist turned out to be a shaggy shepherd mix named Tommy who stood by my side, his bushy tail swinging. He’d been treated for a terrible ear infection not long ago and had stayed at the hospital with us for a few days. Even in discomfort he’d been a cheerful, cooperative patient. Now, cured of a persistent mixed bacterial and yeast infection deep in the ear canal, he wriggled and wagged his greeting.
I bent down to say hi, softly petting his head and sneaking a quick peek into his thick, floppy ears. No funky smell was a good sign.
Meanwhile, Mari called the pooches to follow her up the stairs. With a whirl of energy, some sprinted ahead, while others preferred the gradual graded ramp built for the older and three-legged dogs. All were happy and enjoying their second chance at life, thanks to this well-run rescue farm.
